


respite

by Ashling, shoshe_anders



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Background Ada Shelby/Freddie Thorne, Bisexual Disaster Tommy Shelby, Bisexual Tommy Shelby, F/M, Inspired by Roleplay/Roleplay Adaptation, M/M, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-05-13 15:31:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/pseuds/Ashling, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoshe_anders/pseuds/shoshe_anders
Summary: Alfie sees Tommy as a brother and Tommy likewise; war is for the righteous and peacetime brings peace; loneliness is for people far less busy than they; and many other heartfelt lies.





	1. FRANCE

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: this is just an RP that we hastily double-checked the spelling on. It exists for fun and fun only. If you're expecting carefully plotted arcs, etc., you have come to the wrong place. We made this cause we're SOFT and we like to sit in our FEELINGS and that's the be all end all of it.

With shells landing, there were pockets of sound so loud that it wiped out everything else, as if someone had lifted the needle from a record.

“You know what would be fucking funny?” John shouted in one of those pauses, huddling close to the earthen side of the trench. “You know how the papers keep saying armistice is coming? It would be pretty fucking hilarious if armistice was settled in the afternoon after we all got slaughtered in this morning strafe.” Then his eyes widened, and as a shell landed dead close, spraying them all with dirt. They could see him mouth, “Shit. The fuck is Captain Solomons doing here?” He pointed. “Look!”

Captain Solomons waded through the mud of the trenches urging the men that he passed to pull back into the inner barracks.

"Shelby and Shelby!" he snapped, handkerchief over his mouth as if in preparation for the news he had to deliver. "Planes have been spotted by camp. They're coming to gas. Get to your bunks and get your masks," he ordered, grabbing John by his coat. He yanked the huddled boy from the edge of the trench and shoved him in the proper direction.

John slogged his way through the mud towards the shelters, but Tommy lingered behind a moment.

“I thought they were sending you back,” he shouted. “Did your leg miraculously heal? Or do you have some kind of fucking death wish?”

John returned with a mask for himself, one for Tommy, and one for Alfie. Suddenly, the shelling stopped.

“Shit.”

They all wrestled on their gas masks, and Tommy settled down, putting his shoulder to the metal of a Lewis gun.

Alfie snatched the mask from the younger Shelby and forced it on. He turned his collar up and pressed against the wall near Tom. The sound of the propellers wasn't far off, and it caused his stomach to churn with anxiety.

"It's a fucking death wish," he called over the dull roar.

As the pale brown cloud of mustard gas rolled towards them like fog across no-man's-land, Tommy actually smiled. "If you—"

Some motion was visible within the cloud. He shut up and focused instead on making out the small dark figures of the enemy as they wavered closer, eventually beginning to shoot once they were in range, spraying bullets at about chest height until he was knocked back by a shot to the shoulder.

"If I...?" Alfie asked, raising his own gun. His gun fired, the kick of the weapon sparking life into his chest again. Here was were he felt most alive and he was resolute to die here, along with his brothers in arms. His head whipped around as Tommy dropped back. "Tom?" He dropped down as well and inspected the tear on his uniform where the bullet entered.

Tommy wanted to say it's fine, and get up to get the fuck on with it. His body didn't obey and instead he lay there gasping for a couple seconds, just long enough to get a red stain on the sleeve of Alfie's uniform.

He managed to push himself up with his good arm, then saw a figure emerge from the gas at the top of the trench. Letting out a general shout of warning, he yanked Alfie down with his good hand as shots peppered round them.

Alfie rolled and grabbed the trench knife that was strapped to his belt. It took him a moment to get his bearings, but then instinct took over. He reached out for the hot barrel of the enemy's gun and yanked it away before plunging the knife into his stomach. He twisted the blade and yanked it upwards, gutting him.

"C'mon Shelby. Put pressure with your good hand." he instructed, cleaning off his blade before moving to sit him up. "You're a sitting duck here. I'm going to move you further back."

"I can fucking...move myself," grunted Tommy, wobbling to his feet with his good hand on the back wall of the trench. John, who hadn't noticed Tommy shot before but certainly noticed now, hovered awkwardly around him. For a second, there was only the dead silence, and shooting in the distance as Tommy weighed whether or not to disobey Alfie and just stay for the fight. Then he gave up.

"Get the fucking Lewis," Tommy snapped, and John jumped to it, leaving Tommy and Alfie to make their way to one of the shelters farther back.

"Good man." Alfie encouraged, putting a strong arm around his hips. "I haven't seen a proper doctor in days. There's no point in waiting for one. Let's get to the officer's barracks. I can at least get it clean if we can't get the bullet out right now." he grunted, feet slipping in the bloody mud.

"Think I'd rather bleed out than say hello to a roomful of officers," Tommy growled, but he struggled through the trench where Alfie directed him and leaned on his shoulder a bit too. After all, Alfie was right; they'd been starved for good doctors and frontline medics for weeks now, and he'd rather have Alfie deal with him than almost anybody else, if it had to be done. "Before, I was going to say, if you have a fucking death wish, can you have it somewhere else? The rest of us are trying to survive. So of course I get shot and not you. Bastard."

He managed a small laugh. "Yeah? You're not dead though. I didn't have a fuck-my-arm-over wish." he teased, "As for officers, if they were worth their salt, they won't be at the bunks. It's mornings like these that separate true men from cowards." He huffed and hoisted Tommy up a bit more.

"You should have a fuck-arm wish. One fucked leg, one fucked arm, it'd be fucking symmetrical."

When Alfie opened the door to the officer's bunker, there were three men sitting round a table, staring back. One of them was smoking a cigarette, and what infuriated Tommy even more was that one of them had quite a clean pink face. Who the fuck had the hot water and the time to wash their face in the middle of a fucking strafe.

"It's funny," Tommy growled. "Captain Solomons and I were just talking about what true men you lot are." After a few seconds of a stare-off, the officers reluctantly got on their masks and gear and headed out. Tommy sat down hard in one of the chairs and helped himself to the abandoned cigarette.

Solomons brushed past them, yanking his mask off as he rummaged through his own trunk for medical supplies. Tweezers, a bit of alcohol, needle, and thread.

"Off with that shirt Shelby. Don't be shy, and strip," he muttered, refusing to meet the gaze of his fellow officers as they moved out. It was an embarrassment, and Alfie was a moment from beating the clean one into the muck outside. "I've got what's needed to get the bullet out myself..." He swallowed a bit and pulled out a tin box. "Smoke a bit of this with your cigarette. Opium. You won't feel a thing."

"First he tells me to strip, then he makes me take drugs," Tommy commented to nobody in particular. "He's a Londoner, all right. A nice Birmingham man would've bought me a pint, at least." But he yanked the shirt off awkwardly with his good hand, and then lit up. Why the fuck not. It wasn't as if living clean had left his brain in tip-top shape; he doubted any opium side-effects could rival the nightmares he had at least twice a week. He exhaled. "All right, dig in. Try not to sever an artery or whatever with those big clumsy baker's fingers."

"Usually it's drugs and then a request to strip." He smirked, dragging a chair over to sit directly in front of Tommy. He grabbed a rag and doused it in alcohol before beginning to clean him up. "If you stay out of the way of more bullets, I'll get you a drink in your shit-hole city. I'll have you know, I was courting a butcher's daughter before we were shipped out here.. I know my way around a shoulder of meat." He put on his glasses and leaned forward to dig for the metal.

"'Was' courting, eh?" Tommy grinned round clenched teeth. "Guess she—fuck!" The tweezers were in his arm. The tweezers were in his arm. He closed his eyes and held onto the table until it was over. He glared. "Some fucking way to shut me up. What if I hit you in the nose every time you took a crack at me, eh?" But as he inspected the bloody mess of his shoulder, it didn't seem much worse than before.

"All right," he said grudgingly. "Guess I won't die. What do you like to drink? The Garrison's best for beer and gin; the Stag is best for whiskey."

"Guess she what, Tommy?" Alfie cleaned his shoulder off again after dropping the bullet on the table. "There's plenty I love to drink. Garrison... No. Fuck what I said about Birmingham, I'll take you to a proper place. Something in London." He threaded the needle and leaned forward, beginning to stitch him up. "Something posh with our meager pay. I want to wear a pressed suit and standing in a cloud of cigar smoke." He lost himself in his fantasy of home for a moment.

At first, it was all Tommy could do to sit still as the needle went through him, but he focused on Alfie's words and after a while, in the silence, he glanced over and half-smiled at Alfie's expression.

"Can't imagine you in a pressed suit," he murmured. Though, when he tried, what he imagined wasn't half-bad. "Though of course none of this will work out if you get that death wish you're on about." He checked the wound when Alfie was done with the stitches, then handed him a cigarette by way of thanks.

Alfie took the cigarette and lit it with a nod of appreciation. "Well... maybe if I have a reason to go home, I'll have a reason to fight." He shrugged. "As it stands now, if I fall in the trenches, you might as well leave me there."

"You sound like some sad fucking poet." But then Tommy thought it over. What did he have? Greta dead, communist meetings a distant memory, mother dead, dad run off, Arthur more or less mad. John and Polly would do all right without him. A year on, he wouldn't be missed. He inhaled deeply and pushed the the thought away. "Still, you'd better not. I'd be happy to get out of owing you a drink, but corpses lying round are health hazards, and I'd rather not have to drag your arse through all that muck. It was bad enough the first time with your bloody leg. You weigh more than a horse, you know that?"

Alfie laughed at that as he cleaned his bloody hands with the rag, before picking his cigarette back up. "I'd like to know the last time you attempted to drag a horse." He smirked. "I may be stocky, but it's pure muscle." He smacked his stomach as he stood up, moving to wash the medical tools in the water left in the officer's basin. The sounds outside had dulled slightly, just the occasional grenade. "There's no point in you going back out there. Take my bed for now, Shelby. You have to take the time to recuperate while you can. They'll expect you to be back in the front tomorrow if you can lift a gun."

Alfie was right, of course. He usually was, as much as Tommy hated it. The Germans hadn't sent over enough men to really overwhelm them, so they weren't in any real danger of attack in the barracks. In fact this was the closest thing to peace Tommy had had in awhile. But with the pain lingering behind the opium, he knew his dreams would be absolutely wild when next he closed his eyes, and he didn't want that with Alfie there. Didn't want it with anyone anywhere, but especially not here and like this. He sat down on Alfie's bed and leaned against the wall.

"Look at that, you do the washing up and all. You're actually a decent nurse. Are you going to tell me a bedtime story?"

Alfie smiled and wiped his hands dry on his trousers. "Did you know that the Jews were accused of magic for being a population that was largely untouched by the bubonic plague? Turns out, basic hygiene, like washing, does wonders." He sucked on his cheek and rubbed his hands together. "A bedtime story? I'm not a performer. It'll be more painful than entertaining. I've got an eight-pager in my trunk that helps me get to sleep."

"Fine, then," Tommy said, "I'll tell you an equally cheery story. Did you know that the Romani were accused of stealing babies because gadje lost all common fucking sense and thought we had to all have black hair, brown eyes, and the lot? The police would've taken me away. Me and my blue eyes. But then my uncle blackmailed the chief of police and got me back. Do I need a moral to the story? Blackmailing does wonders, how's that."

He rifled through Alfie's trunk, found a bottle, and took a swig. "Notice how I'm not sharing your literature? In Birmingham, we don't wank in other people's houses. It's considered impolite."

"I remember hearing that rumor growing up." Alfie nodded, choosing to indulge in another cigarette. They were due for more rations this week, anyway. "It's fucked, but it’s certainly not the worst I’ve heard of your lot." He sat at the foot of the bed and watched him drink. "As for not wanking in other's houses, this isn't my house." He took the bottle and helped himself to a sip. "This is a fucking hole in the ground."

"You've lived in it long enough for it to be your house, hole in the ground or not." Tommy took the bottle back, drank, and set it down on the bed between them. "So. What kind of a drunk are you? Angry, messy, sad? You strike me as a sad drunk." It was odd, actually, the way Tommy couldn't seem to work his way round that part of it. Usually he'd either be cruel or avoid it or try comfort, but talking with Alfie about anything honestly and straightforwardly felt dangerous. He was Tommy's equal in a way few people were; Polly, maybe, but that was so massively fucking different. Alfie was a class of his own.

"Depends on the drink and the atmosphere. Beer for everyday occasions. Wine for shabbat. Whiskey fuels my fists a bit. Dancing and love-making is best with a good rum. " He nodded at the bottle between them. "There's a distinct lack in women here, so this bottle has been a bit lackluster." He paused for a moment, considering. "You haven't seen me get pissed before, hmm? Well, how about you, Shelby? You strike me as rowdy with a few under your belt."

Women, right. Tommy took care to take a small sip, and not to look up. "Arthur's the rowdy one. John's emotional. Me, I enjoy myself, a bit, because I'm forgetting a lot of shit, and then I remember what I forgot and I realize how stupid it all is and I get quiet and stop enjoying myself. And then if I keep drinking I come out the other side throwing up and wondering what just happened." He shrugged. "That was only once, though, and young. I hate missing memories. Best thing is to get as far through part one as I can without moving on to part two."

Alfie smiled and leaned back against the wall, picking up the bottle again. He turned it over in his hand, looking over the faded label. "There should be enough here for a hearty buzz. Maybe not enough to get the both of us drunk... We can try though. Listen."

He paused, the men outside had exhausted themselves. It could be hours until the next attack. "Silence." He popped the cork out and took another sip. "Go on." He held the bottle out to Tommy.

Tommy drank and listened. He loved the sound of silence now more than anything; in the world of bombs and overcrowded huts and endless rain, it was a rare and precious thing to have silence like the kind they had now. With that in mind and his arm aching too, he tipped his head back and chugged quite a bit before he handed the bottle back over. He could already feel a little warmer than before, and besides, he thought, he could handle his liquor. He had a decent past of that.

"So where'd you swipe this from, then?" he asked after a bit. "Or did you buy it off a smuggler? I could use some. Need to get John something for his birthday."

Alfie smiled and tipped the bottle back as well. "A smuggler, yes." he nodded, bringing the cigarette to his lips as soon as the bottle left them. "I can get my hands on a bottle for you. It's not cheap though. A few quid for an entire bottle. I know you're not a debtor. I trust you." It had been a while since Alfie had indulged in his hidden substances. As a captain, he felt the need to be constantly vigilant. A moment with Tommy, with his guard down, was honestly an oasis in a desert of responsibility.

"I'll take it at whatever price. John's young and he's not used to this, he deserves a taste of something else for a while. By the way, you shouldn't trust me any more than I should trust you. We're neither of us trustworthy men. But that's the war. It's made me trust you, too, when there's no fucking reason in it." Tommy thought of something, and smiled. "If we met anywhere but here, it would be in a fight as like as not." He looked Alfie up and down. "I think I'd take you out. Maybe you'd break a few of my bones on the way down, but nothing that six months couldn't heal."

His shoulders shook with laughter as he took another long pull from the bottle. "If I hadn't just tugged a bullet from your arm, I would step to that challenge. You're a willow branch next to me. You gypsies have the speed, but I think my fist may be the size of your head." He met his smile. "The women of Birmingham would never forgive me for bloodying such a pretty face." He held the bottle out for Tommy and ran his tongue over his lips as his buzz set in.

Tommy tried his absolute best to ignore Alfie licking his lips. Unfortunately, due to a mix of blood loss, a little opium, and a lot of rum, his best was not available. "Concerns about my beauty and even greater concerns about the deep perils of angry Brummie women aside," he said, "If you didn't still limp, I'd make the challenge. But I don't fight cripples. And look." He set the bottle down, grabbed Alfie's wrist, and brought his hand up to about the height of Tommy's face. "Considerably fucking smaller," he observed.

Alfie's smile grew. "Cripple?" he repeated quietly, before gripping Tommy's cheeks playfully. "In a few month's time... I'm going to make you beg for mercy." He let go of his face and stretched, before kicking off his boots. "My fists may not be the size of your face, but my biceps certainly are." He shed his captain's jacket next and flexed his arm for him, as if he was hitting on some whore in a pub. "Go on. Feel it."

When Alfie gripped his face, Tommy's hand automatically went to his pocket to search for a knife that wasn't there, but then they both relaxed. Or at least Tommy relaxed as best he could with what felt like sparks in his skin. And then Alfie had his arm in Tommy's face and he was grinning, now, couldn't help it.

"I've just figured out what kind of drunk you are. You're ridiculous," he informed Alfie, but he felt it all the same. The body beneath could hardly be argued with. "It's hardly about size, it's about power, speed, and thinking. And playing dirty. I've certainly killed men with larger arms than that."

"A ridiculous drunk? I'm not drunk though." He was tipsy, so it was a half truth. He knew he was being flirtatious. It was just natural for him. Tommy was androgynous enough in looks that any sort of rigidity that he might have had in his sexuality had softened significantly. "I would have been interested in seeing that. I haven't seen a decent fight for sport in a while." He snuffed out his cigarette and tossed it into the ashtray on his bedside table.

"Not a ridiculous drunk? You're just ridiculous, then, as usual," Tommy said. "Anyways there was nothing decent about it. I was pretty young, and he was pretty big. I ducked a lot, took out his knee with a pipe and it all went well from there." It was bad enough before, but now there was touching and Alfie was damn near friendly if not something else and Tommy felt the need to remind Alfie that they were both violent men and any sort of bullshit afterwards would be paid for in blood. Or something.

Alfie shut his eyes and leaned back against the single feather pillow on his bed, trying to picture it. It sounded like a fight that he would have loved to watch a few years ago. Now...? Well, he had watched men scalped before him; eyes gouged out, teeth kicked in... He wasn’t sure if he would ever have the same thrill from watching a match in a controlled environment. “Pipe in a fight? That’s cheap.” Was all he could manage to comment. “If we brawl? No weapons, only skin.”

"I did say earlier it's important to fight dirty. Cheap, is that what you call it? About right. Fairness and that Marquess of Queensberry shit is for people who can afford it. But I'll make an exception for you. If we do fight, no weapons. Unless," he added, "you've set some kind of precedent that changes my mind." He glanced down at Alfie beside him; the only way that Tommy could tell he was still awake was the fact his breathing hadn't evened and lengthened out the way a sleeping man's would. "You look tired," he said quietly. He put the bottle back in the trunk and closed it. "Sleep, it's fine."

He blinked his eyes open and offered a light smile to him. “I don’t know if I should go to sleep with another man in my bed. I may get shit from the other officers.” He yawned, shifting to sit up a bit more. “They’ve already commented that I’m too informal as your superior.” He snorted. “I’m no one’s superior here. We’re all in the same trench.”

"You only say that because you don't need the hierarchy to make the men work for you. They see you limping round with those massive arms and that massive knife and they forget all about insubordination. But for men like Captain Bright and Shiny, they need respect for the ranks more than anything, because rank is all they've got." Tommy looked over. Now that Alfie was sitting, he was quite close. "It's a shame we have to care about them and what they think," he said. "This was almost restful."

“Massive arms...” he repeated, letting his form rest against Tommy’s slightly. He would gladly take the compliment. “Not just them...” he continued, eyes sliding shut again. “It’s not normal to share your bed with another man. I wouldn’t want you to get any wrong ideas.”

"Alfie, I just got shot and you just knifed a man. Nobody's had any right ideas since at least July 28, 1914. Anyway, are you calling my uncle wrong? You're lucky he's dead, or old George would have half your ear bitten off and a knife in your throat before you could raise a finger." He didn't find any offense in it personally, but it was tiring, this part of the dance where they both had to say they hated themselves. Sure, Tommy did, but for other reasons, bloodier things than their arms pressed together. Things devoid of all this unspoken gentleness.

“Your uncle was a poof?” He asked, surprised at Tommy’s openness about it. Sure, he knew men who engaged in such activities behind closed doors, but he wasn’t about to broadcast it. “I uh... maybe my wording was incorrect. I’m just not ready for a dishonorable discharge... and I, myself, am not a poof. I’ve never had a reason to turn to men. Women are easy enough.” He gave a good natured smirk and nudged him. “Why did you put that rum away, Tommy?”

"Why do you feel the need to choose?" Tommy held onto his calm and his sanity with both hands for a silent second, then lit up another cigarette. "Anyways you said rum was for dancing and lovemaking, and you're not dancing on that fucked leg. Love to see you try." He smirked, but there wasn't quite the usual glint of amusement in it. "But you won't try, will you, when sitting like a lump on a log is easy enough."

“I would try if we had decent enough music.” He stood and winced a bit as he moved to turn on the radio. The officers really weren’t to switch from the channel where orders could come through... but it was usually radio silence this time of day. He turned the tuner, and shifted where he stood, until he landed on chamber music. “Now... I’m not one to dance alone. You hardly seem like a capable partner with your arm blown to hell. Your posture would be terrible.” Another playful laugh.

"So you'll not sleep with me, but you'll dance?" Tommy made a small noise of derision in the back of his throat. "Wouldn't work anyways; you'd insist on leading, and you'd lead with all the grace of a chained bear." But there was no sting to his voice. The music was actually lovely, and he found himself more relaxed than he fancied he was even when sleeping. "Go on," he said. "Show us a waltz or something. Prove me right."

The captain ducked his head a bit in embarrassment and smiled as he looked at Tommy. “Another few drinks and I may dance with you.” He hummed, starting to step a bit in time with the waltz that was playing. He couldn’t take his eyes off of the figure in his bed, shifting to get comfortable as the quiet music played. It didn’t take long for him to grow self conscious, still not drunk enough. “Fuck it. You’re going to tell the other blokes about this, hm?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "What am I, an officer? Do I look like a man who talks?" Then he sighed. "Sit down, we've run out of rum. You're all right at the waltz, but you'd still probably step on my toes. You're walking more easily than even just last Sunday. Is the leg healing up all right?"

He didn't know exactly what territory they were in, but he was pretty sure the lack of rum had left them stranded in some conversational no man's land, and he wondered whether he could successfully ease them back into something casual. He didn't even know if he wanted to.

Alfie sat back down next to him and stretched his leg a bit. “It’s fine. I could probably use a walking stick when we can home. For now, I’ll tough it out.” He assured, watching his toes wiggle in his socks. “I would only step on your toes if you couldn’t follow music.” The captain yawned and stretched out next to him, inhibition lowered.

When Alfie yawned like that, he looked devastatingly young, somehow, or maybe just unscarred, just a human at the core.

"I can keep time," he said. Tommy was as quiet as ever now, maybe even a little quieter than usual. "Go to sleep, you look wrecked. I'll stay sitting if it's an issue, say as an excuse that I was worried I'd get shouted at by another officer if I sat on their bed. It's fine." Alfie's elbow dug into Tommy's thigh a bit and it was all fine.

“Sounds reasonable.” Alfie nodded, taking any excuse to get a restful few hours in. He nodded and unbuttoned his shirt, resting it over the edge of the small headboard. Once free of the constraints of his top, he settled on the bed, heavy eyes starting to shut. He laid out on top of the blanket, curling his legs up to give Tommy space on the narrow mattress. “For your comfort, Tommy.” He reached under his head and offered the single pillow. “Wake me up if the pain is too much. I’ll see what we have to manage it.”

Tommy accepted the pillow, fingers brushing against Alfie's calloused ones in the process. Maybe that was stupid, but it felt right as a sort of conclusion to the conversation more than words would have. He wedged the pillow behind his back and the wall, settled in, and closed his eyes.

Over time, he took care not to fall asleep, and even as the effects of the rum began to wear off, he didn't try waking Alfie. A few soldiers stumbled in, and he opened one eye and glared them into submission so well that they even kept the noise down a little. He stayed there, Alfie by his side, as long as he could, and then when night fell he knew it was over. As the other officers began to settle down in the other bunks, he got up slowly, shoulder screaming all the while, lifted Alfie's head, and slid the pillow underneath. Then he left.

 

 

 

  
A few days later, Captain Solomons was up before the sun, with a few supplies tucked under his arm. He didn’t want to make a big show in front of the other soldiers, but Tommy had a point about John. He really was a child still, and to be on the front lines for his birthday...well, it wasn’t what it should be for a young man. He cleared his throat and banged on the door with his clenched fist before letting himself in.

“Rise and shine, Shelby,” he chuckled, yanking the blanket off of John.

John woke up with a splutter of protest, curling up into a ball against the cold air and squinting balefully up at Alfie.

"The fuck are you doing? 'S too damn early for the morning strafe."

From one bed over, Tommy put down his gun and laughed. "Happy birthday, John. You're almost a man."

"Some birthday present, getting kicked out me own bed," John grumbled, pulling on his big trench coat and then sitting, blinking in the early sunlight, rubbing his eyes.

Alfie pulled a chair from against the wall over near the bed and sat in exhaustion. The pain had returned to his leg, it was hot to touch...but he didn’t feel like he needed to make a fuss in the infirmary. He’d be gentle with it, clean it daily, and that would have to be good enough. He held out a wrapped bottle for him.

“From your brothers.” He announced, before fishing a box of cigarettes and a ration of chocolate from his pocket. “And from me.”

John lit up. "Thanks!"

Tommy grinned. "Soft." Most of the men were still either sleeping or refusing to acknowledge their wakefulness, but the few that sat up in their beds chimed in with an affably mocking chorus of "soft".

John stowed the bottle and cigarettes before he went to unwrap the chocolate. As he ate, a few men got up and began to go about their day, one cursing quietly as he stubbed his toe on a bedpost, one yawning enormously, and so on and so on.

"Don't eat it all in one bite now," said Tommy.

"You sound like Mum."

"There are worse things I could be." Tommy sat at the edge of his bed and offered Alfie a cigarette and, more quietly, "Thanks."

Alfie took the cigarette with a nod and got back to his feet, inhaling sharply as his knee threatened to give out.

“You paid for it. I’m just a middle man, Mum.” He dismissed, waving his hand. There was a hint of pleasure in his exhausted face. He genuinely enjoyed boosting morale in this ever present hell. The captain moved to exit the barracks, sweat forming on his hairline from an ignored fever. “John-boy, if your bullets get sloppy from drinking, you’ll be mucking shit from the chamber pots until armistice.”

"I stowed the bottle, you saw it yourself," John protested. Tommy heaved himself out of bed and ruffled John's hair before walking over to Alfie. Even at seventy-seven, he thought fondly, they'd all still be calling him John-boy, because no matter how old he got or how many men he killed he still was always the youngest.

"Quite fucking polite way to remind you I owe you," Tommy said mildly, leaning in the doorway and counting out the money. "Have you had someone take a look at the leg yet? Or is your face just shiny from the walk? Cause it's a pretty fucking short walk, is the thing, Alfie." He handed over the money and tucked the remains into his pocket. "Can't tell you how much I don't want to carry you again."

“Maybe if you weren’t such a scrawny lad, carrying me wouldn’t be a bother.” Alfie chuckled, pocketing the money. His smile disappeared after a moment. “No. Not since the doctor stitched it up the first time. It’s just a little irritated. It’s nothing. I assure you.” He lied. “I’ll have a check up when the medics have a moment.”

"They never have a moment. You've got to shake them by the shoulders to get their attention." Tommy searched Alfie's face, saw the way his eyes didn't hold the look as securely as they usually did, and found the evasion underneath. "But you're not even trying, are you. Eh? If you wanted death that bad, you should've just asked me to shoot you. This shit is no way to go. Don't you remember Evans? Get your arse on that bed, you at least need a new bandage. At the very fucking least."

Alfie swallowed and led him out of the room, looking down the trench for potential eavesdroppers. “I may be losing this leg next time they look at it. I’d rather be dead than return to London without all my working parts.”

"You fucker, I knew it was something like this. Jesus." Tommy leaned against the back wall of the trench, or rather just the sharp slope of earth, and watched the horizon lighten. "Right, I'm only going to say this once." He looked down, stubbed out his cigarette. "Don't fucking die. Pull yourself together, let me help, we'll sort it out. But don't fucking…Nobody's sawing any bones. All right? Anyways," he went on hurriedly, "You're already missing working parts. The brain, for one."

Alfie rolled the cigarette between his fingers, listening to the concern in Shelby's voice. Thomas was a friend to him. A true friend. All of this was so much easier without heart involved. "You want to help? I hope you have a strong stomach. C'mon, we'll take breakfast in the medic tent. See if there's a bed available." He tossed his finished cigarette in the mud and dug his nails into the palm of his fist as he walked.

Tommy followed in grim silence through the maze of trenches till they reached the medic tent. There were a few men sleeping there, one with a fever, the other two wounded maybe or maybe just needing a quiet place. One massively overworked nurse had apparently collapsed into a chair and was snoring enormously, her hand still on an open report she'd been writing. There were a couple of men doing just what Tommy and Alfie were doing, one changing the bandage on the other's back. Tommy could remember when they had first arrived, when the place had been staffed and full to the gills with supplies. Now they were nearly out of all medicines, and nearly all out of people too. Best not to dwell on it.

Tommy pushed Alfie down onto one of the beds.

"Your turn," he said. "Don't bother with breakfast, there's half a chance it'd all only come back up anyways. Fuck that's ugly."

Alfie worked his trousers down and tossed them aside. His nostrils flared at the sight on his thigh. Hot, inflamed, and somehow still scabbing.

"You're fucking right, the idea of you touching it makes me sick," he mumbled, reaching down to peel off the wrappings. It had been sore for a few days, but now the pain was terrific, like a tooth that needed immediate extraction. It was only adding to Alfie's fear.

"Tommy, it looks infected.They're going to cut it." he muttered, wiping sweat from his upper lip.

"It'll be cut, but not cut off. Look." Tommy pointed, being careful not to actually touch the inflamed skin. "It's bad, but not deep. There's some pus. Think a bit of dirt might have gotten under the bandage, but if I lance the pus and clean you up, there's no reason for it to spread deeper, or into the bone." He went over to the back wall and started gathering supplies. "Just don't try to fucking kill me while I'm at it."

"A bit of gypsy magic while you're at it, too? Hmm?" he joked, laying back to shut his eyes. "Yeah...Yeah...If you manage to get me right, won't kill you now. Just be quick about it." Alfie shifted on the mattress and threw his arm over his eyes. He didn't want to know when the puncture was coming.

"Magic? Fuck you." Tommy set down a bucket at the side of the cot, then pushed Alfie over so that his wounded leg was hanging over the side, directly above the bucket. All right. Scalpel, saline, bandage. This would all be easy, if only he didn't have to see the expression on Alfie's face. He set his teeth, crouched, and made the cut, quick and small.

At this, the nurse jerked awake. "'s the fucking smell?" she murmured sleepily, but Tommy ignored her, rinsing away the pus and the specks of dirt with the saline directly.

He swallowed harshly and grit his teeth, not letting even a wince escape his body. The pain was one thing he could compartmentalize, but the smell was another. He could feel himself sweating again. He grimaced and turned his head, hiding the weakness of his stomach from the man working on his leg. "Hold on, Tommy... Give me a second to catch my breath." he muttered.

This is exactly what Tommy hadn't wanted, but he knew that if he didn't stop, the feeling of being out of control, the feeling of having the pain come and having no say in it, would be worse than most anything he could do to Alfie. So fine. He stopped, cupped Alfie's cheek briefly with his clean hand.

"The sooner the better, eh? Good man." He finished cleaning the wound with the rest of the saline, aware by now that the nurse had come up behind him and was supervising. When it came time to bandage Alfie up, she lifted the leg for him and let him slide the bandage underneath, then wrap it. Finally he turned round and raised an eyebrow.

"Decent," she grunted, then left to go check on her feverish patient.

Alfie's ears were ringing. "Feels... clean. Not good, but... clean." he breathed, swallowing again to get the nauseating lump from his throat. "Be a good lad and bring me a tea? Actually, no, fuck the tea. Hot water and whiskey. I bought a new bottle for myself. In the trunk. If the officers give you shit…Well, I trust that you can hold your own."

Tommy patted his arm and for once in his life did exactly as he was told. He put the kettle on over the fire, went to the officer's quarters, and rifled through Alfie's things to get at the whiskey.

One of the other officers called out, "He has you running round like and errand boy, does he? Hope the pay's good." His tone left very little room for interpretation.

Without looking up, Tommy said, quite flatly, "Only two of the men in this room will make it out the other side of this war. And you're not one of them." There, found it. Whiskey in hand, he stood up, and smiled a shark's smile. "You know what they say about us. We have the second sight."

He left before the other man could say a word.

"Fuckin’ idiot."

And then there was the medic's tent again, and the water hot. "You're the most popular officer among the men," he tossed over his shoulder as he added a generous bit of whiskey. "But you're the likeliest to get your throat slit by another officer, you know that?"

When Tommy returned, Alfie was propped up on pillows, smoking. At Tommy's words, he smiled. "Fulton? Hardly a threat in my opinion. He knows I could beat him to a pulp if necessary. The fucking fairy only has his rank because his family has sizable property up north."

Oh, not that again. If Alfie wasn't already Tommy's friend, they'd definitely be enemies. Sometimes even now Tommy just longed to give him a smack upside the head. "You're an absolute idiot if you think that's the problem. It's not one, it's multiple. It's almost all of them. Don't fucking underestimate the entitled rich pricks of this world; you can't fight them when you're asleep and you can't fight a court-martial either. Drink that before you say something stupid." He shoved the mug into Alfie's hands.

Alfie paused and looked up to Thomas, only slightly surprised by how he was being spoken to. He liked it though, the brashness; it was something that made Alfie admire the man next to him. He took a long sip from the mug and melted back into the pillow. "You'll be more likely to get your throat slit than I."

"I'm not the one sleeping in officer's bunkers, and the Small Heath Rifles are all right. It's not my men that have the fucking problem. But go on making enemies, taking no precautions, and putting my work on that leg to waste. Let me know how that works for you." Tommy flopped down on the bed across from Alfie's. "Oi. Nurse." She turned and gave him a glare. "Have some whiskey in your tea if you want. This one—" he cocked a thumb at Alfie "—would say thanks, but he's got no fucking manners, London raised and all." She gave him a nod, then drank a big gulp straight from the bottle and went back to work.

“You’re right, we’re practically swine.” He hummed, rolling his eyes. “I thanked her after she cleaned up my sick, if you must know. An angel, isn’t she?” He chuckled, finishing up his cigarette. In the background, the nurse flipped Alfie off good-naturedly. “I’m a man who can’t stay still Tommy. If I sat back and enjoyed things for too long, I would lose my fucking mind.” 

"Fuck, I'd hate to see that." Tommy thought about it. "Or maybe I'd like it, if I had a chair at a distance, a gun, some popcorn, and a pair of binoculars. Doubt the Army has a pair of binoculars strong enough to cover the distance between Birmingham and London, though. I may have to take the train up now and again to observe your descent into madness."

Alfie looked him over and took a breath. “I wouldn’t mind seeing you under more pleasant circumstances. You have a place to stay in the city should you need it.” He offered, keeping his voice rather low. The whole tent didn’t need to know of his generosity or fondness for the soldier. “Your psychotic brother on the other hand... can stay out back, and I’m afraid I don't have a nursery for John.”

Tommy smiled. "Be careful, Alfie. I may have to take you up on that."

It was a pleasant few minutes they spent together, but short. Too short. Soon enough, the first crashes of the morning strafe rattled the beds, and Tommy got to his feet. He'd almost forgotten that there was a war on, just then. But.

"Best go back, I think. They'll need me on the Lewis, and the shoulder doesn't hurt much. Mind you don't drive the nurse wild, and if I see you trying to walk on that thing within the next twenty-four hours, I'll shoot you in the other leg."

He laughed and put his arms behind his head. “As you say, doctor...You’re leaving me in capable and lovely hands. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?” Alfie gave a beaming grin to the nurse. “Give ‘em hell, Tommy and don’t waste your bullets on me.” 

 

 

 

 

 

A couple of days later, John poked his head in the officer's quarters. "Alfie, do you have a minute? There's summat wrong with my fucking salary papers, can't figure out what it is. Think I'm overdrawn on my account, too."

"A Shelby in the poorhouse, what a fucking surprise," Fulton called.

"Fuck off," John called back. To Alfie: "Can you step outside a minute, just have a quick look?"

Alfie snapped his fingers at John’s expletive and stood up from the bed. “S’not how you address a commanding officer, lad. Even if he should just fuck off.” He perched his glasses on the top of his head and came out of the room with his new walking stick firmly in hand. “Where are your papers? Let’s have a look.”

John grit his teeth. "Apologies, Captain." He took care not to look as Fulton as they walked out, certain that if he did, it'd be nothing but a glare.

"There's no papers," he said, once outside. "Chuffed you approve of my lying abilities, though. No, it's something else." He shifted from foot to foot, awkwardly. "Papers are saying armistice will be any day now. And we haven't had them try to actually break through in months. Not properly. Looks like we'll all be heading back soon, right?"

Alfie gripped the top of his cane, wondering where John was going with this. “Nothing has been set, yet, John. We’re all ready for it to be done and I do think that it’ll be sooner rather than later. Why? What’s got you bothered?” He asked, meeting his gaze.

John kicked a stray pebble and watched it fly a short distance, then get stuck in the mud.

"Shouldn't be me doing this," he muttered. "But everyone's gone. Arthur's not here. There's nobody left to do it but me." He avoided Alfie's eyes. "We were talking the other day about what it would be like, going home. Worried, right, 'cause the factory jobs have dried up a bit and Birmingham's hit a hard patch. Tommy said he might look at London. Said you might give him a hand. Other families might do that, travel a bit. Not us. We're Birmingham people. And he's Tommy Shelby, so this...Alfie, this is fucked. I don't want him getting killed."

Alfie raised his eyebrows a bit and scratched at his face. “Does your brother know that you’re coming to my door asking me for a favor on his behalf?”

John wanted very much for the ground to swallow him up. "I don't—don't think you've quite got it, Alfie. Or maybe I'm not saying it right. No, I am, I'm not saying it right at all. Fuck." He ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Tommy would never leave Birmingham just because times are hard. That's fucking stupid, times are almost always hard and we're always fine at the end of it, right? So it's not that. It's not that. I don't think you should come by anymore. Or at least leave him alone. I've never seen it before, but Arthur has, he told me what to look out for, and I think you're it. Probably not even your fault, but Alfie, can you please just...fucking not talk to him for a while?"

Alfie frowned a bit, still not entirely understanding what John was on about. “Are you afraid that I’m driving a wedge in your family?” He asked quietly. “Tommy Shelby isn’t going to get killed in London. Not in my city.” He paused again and licked his lips, wondering why he was suddenly so defensive about the man. They had become friends, sure, but it wasn’t anything that he wouldn’t be able to walk away from. “Your brother has been an invaluable asset and help. What sort of man would I be to just brush him aside?”

"What sort of...I don't know, Alfie, one that gives a damn, even just a little? You can't protect him from everything, especially in London. Fuck." He lit up one of his birthday cigarettes, looking truly miserable. "It's a family story, this, happening all over again. Maybe this sort of thing runs in the family, I don't know. My aunt, Polly, she had a half-brother we all called uncle. Right? George. And times were hard, he worked at this little shop with a friend, Bailey. Met at school, not at war, but still friends. Someone found George floating down the Cut a few months after that. Bailey's cousin did it, we found out later. He's dead, of course. First man Arthur ever killed. But. Better to avoid it altogether, if we could have." John took an enormous breath in, which unfortunately just made him cough on the cigarette smoke.

Alfie suddenly understood the accusation and grabbed John by the scruff of his shirt. He walked him against the wall, drawing himself to his full height. “I’ve never once made a pass at your brother. It would be good of you to remember that.” He said evenly. “I want you to keep your fucking mouth shut about, do you understand me, Private? Don’t waste my time with your family affairs again.” He let go of John and took a step back. “Return to your station.”

John stumbled back, weary and for the first time, looking almost old. "I thought you might do that," he murmured wretchedly. "Fuck, Alfie—Captain—I didn't want to do this. But someone had to. He knows everything else. He knows how to handle everyone else: enemies, family, the rest of it. Usually if you're not family, you're an enemy, but that's—beside the fucking point. I believe you, okay? You never did anything. But just—" He stared at Alfie with such an expression of mingled frustration and sadness, the quietness of his voice came as a surprise. "Just avoid him. It's a short time to armistice and then I can drag him back to Birmingham."

Alfie was fairly lost in his own thoughts, but despite the selfishness of his own emotions, he could recognize the sadness in John's voice. They both wanted what was best for Thomas and saw very different ways to achieve that. John knew him best though and Alfie was smart enough to listen.

"I'll avoid him." he conceded, gaze dropping to his boots. "This stays between us.” Alfie was quiet for a moment before he looked back up to John. “This isn't the first time I've heard about George. Is Thomas... like him?"

"God, Tommy told you about him already? Even Polly always insists he got drunk, hit his head, and fell in the Cut." John thought it over a minute. "Look, I don't know. There was Greta Jurossi, and he loved her, and she died. And when I was young, they wouldn't tell me about it till later, but there was someone else. Arthur told me he warned the boy off and I don't think they spoke for almost a month. Arthur and Tommy didn't speak, I mean. Tommy's so fucking stubborn."

He rubbed his face again, reanalyzing the conversations they had, the looks that had been exchanged. Some moments shared together after the other men had gone to bed could be reimagined as a courtship. Secrets and old stories told by the light of an oil lamp. He swallowed and crossed his arms over his chest, suddenly very uncomfortable with a seed that had been planted in the back of his mind. “Yeah? I see. Well, John, find him a nice Birmingham bird.”

"I will. She'll be smart, and sharp, and she'll have a blue-eyed kid and not let Tommy get away with his bullshit, and we'll all grow to be a hundred years old, and we'll be fine." John could tell that Alfie wasn't exactly enjoying the conversation, and neither was he. Message sent, message received. He turned on his heel and headed back to the trenches, then paused a second to add: "And—thanks. For not killing me, or him, or anybody. Anybody British."

“Stop wasting my time, Shelby.” He retorted, turning back to his room.

He paused in the doorway and looked to Fulton, wondering if anything had been overheard. “You were right about the Shelby boys. Fucking walking hurricanes. Chaos in their wake.” He shook his head and returned to his desk, taking the time to clean his pistols.

"Told you," Fulton said, seemingly satisfied with Alfie's conclusion. "They seem all right at first, but they all go mental. I had the oldest one last year, and that was like having a shell explode in the trench next to me every goddamn day." He took in the rather intense, methodical expression on Alfie's face, the way he held himself. "You're not gonna kill him though, are you?" There was a note of real concern in his voice.

“Kill him? What?” He looked down at the pistol he was dismantling. “No. Not my style.” He wiped his mouth and stood up, deciding that a drink would steady his hand a bit. He paused a bit, looking up to Fulton. “What a thing to accuse. Are you the kind of man to kill a Private for acting up?”

"Depends on what 'acting up' is, but no. No, I'd never kill one of ours unless it was absolutely necessary. They're sort of extra filling between us and the Germans. But you're not me, Solomons. You always look half-ready to kill. Right now you look considerably more than half."

There was a sort of strangled yelp from outside. "The fuck is that?"

"Couldn't be a strafe," someone else said. "No shells, no bullets."

The door flew open and a lieutenant, red-faced and wordless with excitement, thrust the front page of the newspaper out at them.

Alfie tore the paper from the lieutenant’s hand and let out a sigh of relief as he read the headline: “GREAT WAR ENDS,” in bold, beautiful text. “Fuckin’ hell. It’s done.” He whispered, handing the paper off to Fulton. “We’re done. Gather the regiment, we’ll make the announcement.”

 

 

 

 

Tommy watched John out of the corner of his eye as they all lined up as best as they could in the crowded space of the mess tent. Although most of them were convinced that this was armistice—why else would they all be convened—John still seemed off, nervous maybe, or even guilty. Fuck. What trouble could the boy possibly get up to in a trench? There weren't even any fucking stores to rob.

And then there was Alfie, striding along. Just from the way he walked, Tommy knew the rumors were right. But he still wanted to hear it. He wanted the full thing, cheers and all, to be sure this wasn't some twisted dream.

Alfie climbed up the ladder and perched on the edge of the trench, looking over the gathered, exhausted men. He rolled up the paper in his hands and smacked his palm a few times, taking in the crowd.

“Brothers in arms. It ends,” he announced, opening the paper to present them with the morning’s headline. “We’ve won. Crushed those German cunts into the ground. This victory came not at the hands of kings, but of the common men. The men who sacrificed everything. I have watched you send off your brothers, your sons, your friends who have fallen... You are returning home as heroes, as protectors...GODS!” He laughed and clasped his hands together, looking them all over. “Take time tonight to write to your family, your lovers. Tonight, we celebrate. Each of you has earned a rest and a shot of spirits.”

As the men exploded into relieved cheers, Tommy just stood there, clapping slowly, fixing Alfie with those pale eyes. There was a great deal of milling around after, and gabbling with cigarettes in everyone's mouths, and swilling rum, and Tommy let himself drift here and there throughout, never quite settling into any real conversation, never quite meeting anybody's eye, until he wound up standing by Alfie, as innocently and randomly, it seemed, as a bit of flotsam washed up by incomprehensible waves.

"You do love to shout, don't you," he said dryly. "Almost had me feeling proud of having advanced the line a grand total of five miles over the course of four years."

Captain Solomons looked over to Tommy and nodded, watching his men talk and laugh with actual relief. Finally some optimism in their lives. “I wanted to bask in their cheers. Yelling seems to awaken even the most stoic.” He looked to Tommy, thinking about his earlier conversation with John. “You were a gallant soldier. I’m sure that you will receive recognition for your bravery, Shelby. Excuse me.” He forced a tight smile and turned away, giving him the space that John had requested.

It was as if halfway through, Alfie had flicked a switch and turned from the Alfie Tommy knew, who laughed and swore and drank, who always made him angry and always made him smile, into some Captain Solomons he didn't know, whose face he'd only ever seen turned towards other men. It was absurd. What could it all be about? He watched Alfie go and saw that there was no urgent business, that on the contrary, Alfie moved with purpose but towards nothing in particular, eventually ending up talking with a small knot of soldiers from Liverpool. Tommy didn't understand it, and it was the lack of understanding more than anything else that made him angry. He hid it, of course, but he followed Alfie, sidling up into the conversation, watching with flat eyes.

Alfie didn’t move from Thomas a second time. It felt odd to be so cold without explanation, but he didn’t care to drive a wedge between Tommy and John.

“Did you have something else to discuss with me, Shelby? Or can you just not get enough of my cologne?” He asked softly, turning around so only Thomas could hear him.

Tommy took him in: the gentleness was there, as if they were alone, and yet Alfie was calling him Shelby. It was Shelby for loud public talks, only, or for orders, or when he was angry; Tommy for everyday; Tom maybe only once or twice, for when he'd gotten shot and there was a flash of real fear in Alfie's voice. The words too were challenging, very nearly telling Tommy to go away, but in the mildest way possible. What the fuck was going on?

"You didn't sound like yourself, calling me gallant," was all Tommy said. Not angrily, just quietly too, with watchful eyes. "You're not one for giving out clear compliments, so I thought I'd make sure you hadn't hit your head."

"Perhaps just hit with some sense." he retorted, arms crossing over his broad chest. Some may take the stance with an understanding of intimidation. That certainly wasn't there. If anything Solomons' stance was present to protect himself. To provide a physical boundary, as if it could protect him from Thomas' intoxicating gaze. "Maybe I haven't been completely appropriate with you. I think that we need to... understand that we are returning to our own people. This friendship cannot continue."

 _Our own people._ Now Tommy understood John's guilty look. And God, he hated it so much, but Alfie wasn't wrong; the armistice meant an end to all things, them included. Irrationally, he felt cheated somehow, like a child that had had something snatched away. His jaw tightened. "Why not?" He knew the answer, of course. He knew all the answers, but the dogged, mulish part of him just had to ask.

"Birmingham is a long shot from London. You've got a family to look after. Whatever friendship has sprung between us, whatever it is that we're doing, we did it to not go mad down here." Alfie felt as though he could no longer hold Tommy’s gaze. He could feel the anger pouring from Tommy. "I don't need someone else to look after. Do yourself a favor and stay away. I don't need you anymore."

"Anymore?" It was the closest thing to an admission of—of anything that Alfie had ever given him. The past tense was supposed to push him away, but it confirmed, too, that at some point in time, Tommy had been needed. He broke into an empty smile that was more bared teeth than anything else. "Blame it on the war, then, eh?" he said. "That's funny. That's very fucking funny." Leaning in, he rumbled in Alfie's ear, "Keep that shit up, you're well on your way to living in a fucking palace, and every last room empty."

When he stood back, he looked Alfie full on, preserving this memory, bitter as it was, knowing it would be the last. "Enjoy building your empire, Solomons. While it lasts."

On his way out the door, he caught John looking anxiously after him. "What do you want?" Tommy said wearily.

"Nothing."

Tommy wanted to be angry with him, but something about John's face reminded him of when they were little and John had been so scared to tell him something—what was it, that their dog had died? Or maybe it was that Arthur had gone to jail for the first time? Anyways he looked awfully young and Tommy didn't have another fight in him.

"It's fucking Armistice," Tommy said. "I'm going to have a cigarette."

John watched him go. "All right."

Alfie rested against the wall and started into space long after Thomas had left his side. His ears were ringing with his bitter words. Every last room, empty. Too true. They would be at this rate. It was the only way to preserve oneself. Emotions complicated things. He knew there would be young men returning from the war. Men who needed guidance. He would start something up at the synagogue in London. He'd fill the rooms of his palace, just with hopeful veterans who needed to establish a new home. The hollowness in his chest was beginning to consume him, and he needed some sort of escape. There had to be a bit of opium left in his tin. Just something to take the edge off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter: Tommy & Alfie reconnect under very different circumstances. Perhaps peacetime will be more conducive to their furtive relationship than wartime was...perhaps not.


	2. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A queer correspondence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait!

Everything was different. The sky shone blue and bright above them, and the faint smell of sweat and champagne in the air was so very different from mud and gunpowder. Pennants fluttered gaily overhead in place of shells flying, horses trotted before them, warming up, in place of barbed wire, and yet he could recognize that voice anywhere. Glancing over his shoulder, Tommy caught a glimpse of him, then walked away. A bit of careful watching and a couple glasses later, he wove his way through the crowd.

"Ditched the razor as soon as you could, eh?" It was quite the beard, considering Alfie had hardly had any time to grow it. "I picked one up, first thing." Tommy's peeked out under the peak of his cap, just as it had before. It gave him a sort of pleased, comfortable feeling even up here among all these toffs, to have an extra weapon handy.

Alfie set his scotch down and tilted the brim of his own hat back to look Thomas over. He was looking healthier, but still tired. There were lines on his face that such a young man shouldn't have to have yet.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you. You can't make a great soldier a civilian again. Not so quickly, at least. Right? Of course, right." He puffed on the cigar that was still burning between his powerful fingers. "Avi, Ezra... Take a walk, will you? Mr. Shelby and I haven't seen each other in a long while."

He stroked his beard as he watched his two accomplices eye Tommy and leave for separate posts not too far away.

"Good kids. Yeah, very good. Smart as whips." he praised, rambling until he could gather his thoughts enough. Seeing Thomas again was more of a shock than he had anticipated. "Are your brothers here? I should have known you lot were gamblers."

"Oh, we are." Tommy looked over the sweep of the racing grounds; the suits and dresses, the glossy horses, the greens beyond. "But this isn't gambling. Gambling is betting on some chance, taking some risk. This isn't that. There's someone out there that knows exactly how this race ends, and his name is Billy Kimber. So." He turned back to Alfie. "What’s the racket? Don't suppose you have a gym up; your Avi and Ezra are considerably… larger than the average boy." And indeed each matched his leader in bearlike size and scowling. Though of course Tommy was far more used to Alfie's scowling directed at other people. He really didn't know how to deal with the man now that they were neither friends nor enemies.

He laughed at Thomas' comment, fingers curling around his walking stick. Something a bit more posh than what the military had bothered to provide.

"A gym... Rich, rich... No they're my uh... My baking apprentices. You've got to have good arms for kneading all that dough." A knowing smile settled on his lips, eyeing Tommy's suit. "You'll know all about dough, hmm?" He puffed his cigar again and leaned back in his chair. "For the pit that Birmingham's become, you look like you're not starving."

"We're all right. Birmingham's going to be all right, too. It's just going through some changes right now, but we'll come out on top. Bit of healthy competition, it'll keep us getting fat."

"Oi, Tommy. Have you seen John-boy? I swear I just saw Mrs. Changretta from school, she wanted to see him." A gaunt, mustachioed, twitchy man came up behind Tommy and clapped him on the shoulder.

"He's chatting up a girl by the drinks, let him have his fun," Tommy said without turning round.

The man considered Alfie openly, too blatant to be polite but too affable to be really rude. "Are you going to introduce me or what? We're at the races, Tom, might as well be posh."

Now this was exactly what Tommy hadn't wanted.

"Alfie, this is Arthur, me brother. Arthur, Captain Solomons."

"Heard good things about you." Arthur held out his hand with genuine respect (clearly John hadn't told him a thing), while Tommy looked on with a mix of amusement and frustration. Was Alfie going to meet his whole family? Jesus fuck. He could only imagine what Polly and Alfie talking would look like.

"Arthur, yes." Alfie glanced to Tommy for a moment before warmly shaking his hand. "I've heard a bit about you as well. Some from fellow officers, but the better stories come from your brother. You're a boxer, right? I've been told that your hand to hand abilities are something of legend." He withdrew his hand and let his eyes fall to the small amount of white powder at the top of his whiskers, under his nose. "A shtarker... I'd love to see it for myself." He looked back over to Tommy. "Well, if John-boy is occupied, can I tempt you two with a round from the bar? I'm nearly dry here." He lifted his glass of ice.

"Course! Never turned down a free drink before, don't plan to now." Arthur looked absurdly pleased, as well he might; most officers hated the Shelby family, and Arthur was generally hated more than the others due to incessantly loud nightmares and incessantly brutal brawling. Not to mention the insubordination. But of course to Alfie, the effectiveness of the fighter was all that mattered.

Tommy found himself hoping that Arthur never gave Alfie a chance to see his fighting skills for himself. Any outcome would be catastrophically destructive, and besides, they were all doing their best to steer Arthur away from rabid, towards functional. Speaking of. "Just a beer's fine," he said. "Though I think I still owe you a drink myself."

“Do you?” Alfie asked, amused. “You will have to remind me of the circumstances.” He pulled out a few shillings for Arthur’s drink and weighed them in his hand. Hopefully John would be occupied with his woman for a few hours. Perhaps it was his own drunkenness, or his lack of impulse control, but Alfie felt dangerously close to falling into the previous familiarity he shared with Mr. Shelby. “At least let me treat your brother.” He held the coins out to drop into Arthur’s palm.

"Arthur's right. We never say no to a free drink. Dad's rules," said Tommy, although Mum had also said that nothing on this Earth was truly free, and as usual, Tommy was inclined to think she had the right of it. But then there was the slight smile on Alfie's face, and the invitation to remember. "But go on without us a minute. I have some business to talk with Alfie."

"Pleasure meeting, and all that," said Arthur.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Tommy leaned back against the railing and said, "No business. I'd just never hear the end of it if I admitted to being lugged about the trench like a rag doll for no wound worse than a shoulder hit."

Alfie nodded. “And I assumed that your drink debt had been paid by lancing an infected leg.” He reminded, arching his brow. “Carrying you through mud was nothing, nor was it an embarrassment. I hope you don’t think that.” He snuffed out his cigar and put it back in its case to finish later. “The wind would have been knocked out of me as well after an eight hour strafe.” Solomons watched as Arthur disappeared into the throng of people. He thought about Tommy often, and had so many questions to ask, but maybe they were better left unsaid. “Hopefully my clumsy baker fingers didn’t botch the stitches too badly.”

"Arthur just likes to tease. And the arm's all right." Tommy held up one fist. "Knocked a man out with it a few nights ago, so you couldn't have fucked it up too badly."

This was going alright, Arthur and John's concerning presence aside, Tommy decided. Alfie was friendlier than before, perhaps because the distance between their cities was supposed to prevent the danger. It didn't, for Tommy, but at least one of them was comfortable. "How's the bakery business?" He gestured to two scrapes along Alfie's jaw, partly hidden by his beard, where a keen observer like Tommy could guess that a man with two rings had thrown a punch. "Busy, is it?"

“Absolutely booming,” Alfie assured with a wink. “I’ve got a new location, a modest team of twelve now. We’re growing though.” He licked his lips. “We’ll be exporting overseas soon enough. My next purchase is some stock in a transatlantic vessel.” He touched the marks under his beard, holding back a comment on Tommy’s all-seeing eye. “Competitive fucking market, though. I’ll tell you... S’why my bakers need to be so physically capable. I don’t like competition. Not a bit.” He nodded to the bar. “Come along, let’s get that drink before the race begins and you have to join your people.”

Tommy made a half-laughing sound of derision. "You love competition." But he pushed off the railing and followed Alfie to the bar, ordered himself a whiskey and found himself falling back into old patterns.

Alfie ordered a whiskey as well and leaned against the bar with Tommy. "Competition. I love competition if pay for my men isn't being compromised. I run a fair business for my workers." He assured, pointing a finger at Tommy. "And absolutely fuck any man or woman who tries to meddle." He tossed his whiskey back and let out a satisfied sigh with a roll of his shoulders. "Tommy, Tommy..." he breathed, his last drink being the threshold of buzzed to intoxicated. "You have only family and enemies... I've enemies, and well... I've developed a hodge-podge family of my own. Friends, though, allies, are so difficult to find, aren't they? I had thought that I found that with you out in the trenches. I was a fucking school boy." He raised his hand for another round as the crowd in the stands cheered.

The horses were trotting to their starting stalls, stirring the bar flies to move to the stands. "John didn't want that. No, no... John-boy, your little brother, thought I was sweet on you. He implied that you would end up like your Uncle George. Chopped and bloated in the Cut." He wrapped his large hand around the fresh whiskey glass placed in front of him. "You've been doing well without my company. I was right to let you be."

Tommy took it all in silently. So that's what this was; a confession. Of course Alfie wanted a drink first, it would all come out easier that way. But then, what was one whiskey? Not really enough to loosen tongues, just an excuse. Maybe Alfie had been waiting to say this a long time.

"You weren't wrong about any of it," Tommy said. "Nor was John. What else do you want me to say?"

A hush fell over the crowd. The horses pricked their ears forward, strained at the reins, velvety noses wide, chests a hairsbreadth from the wood of the stalls. It was as if the entire world was holding its breath.

At a gunshot, the wood slid back and they leapt forward, releasing not only the horses but the crowd, too, in a wave of sound. Tommy made his own confession then, when nobody at all could hear, in a few short words said blank-faced. Nothing sentimental, merely true. Pure fact. Then he asked the bartender for another drink. He wasn't listening, gawking at the race; so Tommy leaned over the bar and helped himself.

“What else do I want you to say?” He repeated, squinting a bit as his ears were assaulted by the sound. Tommy was saying something, but the words were lost in the roar. As Tommy reached for the bottle, Alfie slid his glass forward to have it topped off. “I don’t know... I don’t know what else there is to say.” He scratched at his beard, flinching when he forgot about the cut from his last brawl. “John was worried you would be cross with him. I hope you aren’t.”

"With John? Never. Even when we were children, both John and Arthur never fought with me for long. They were never cleve or cruel enough to come up with anything worth more than a fistfight, so we were either at peace or fighting, never cross. I was only ever cross with Ada. She was clever enough to think of things that were worth it. But I haven't been cross with her really since before the war. So we're an easy group, us Shelbys. We'll be fine. I'll be fine."

Alfie nodded and ran his tongue over his lower lip. “You’re easy to each other. Not those around you. As I described you to Fulton, ‘a hurricane.’” He swirled his glass, watching the liquid turn. He laughed to himself and shook his head. “Destructive but a wonder to watch.”

"You say that, and you haven't even seen me dance," Tommy said dryly. He leaned casually against the bar, face a stone smile, but underneath it all, what Alfie had said made him ache more than anything Alfie had said before. Acknowledging what John had said had hurt, but not so badly. Alfie had said something like, "John thought I was sweet on you," which wasn't the same as Alfie feeling a damn thing. This, though, this laugh and knowing smile. Whatever it was that Alfie thought of him, there was a fondness at the core that undeniably made it all worse. It made the loss larger. Fuck. He wished he hadn't come.

Alfie looked down to his glass at the thought. “Perhaps I’ll catch you out in the city tonight. A dance hall would be a good spot to watch you prove yourself.”

"We're here on business, not pleasure," Tommy said. "And even if that wasn't true, what makes you think I'd enjoy seeing you dance? I've seen you move. The only grace in it is when you've got a knife in your hand."

“Sounds like my sort of dance. I think it may frighten potential partners off.” He checked his betting tickets and sighed. “I’m here for pleasure and I don’t plan on letting you dampen my afternoon. Enjoy business.” He hesitated for a moment before pulling out a calling card. “Should you ever need freshly baked goods or a sharp shot.”

This was it. This was the moment Tommy was supposed to shrug and say: I've got a gun under my pillow and flour in the pantry, don't I? This was the moment he should say, wouldn't want to put a damper on another afternoon. But instead, of course, he took the fucking card and slid it into his pocket. "Enjoy pleasure," he said, and watched Alfie go.

Alfie took a step back and purses his lips. He was probably a half bottle in on the whiskey, and his next action came through so naturally. The wink, as if he had tossed it at a bar a thousand times, landed in the direction of Thomas. His smile grew. “We’ll be in touch.” He whistled for his men and moved down to their seats to watch the race.

  
\------

  
September 25, 1919

Tommy,

L'shana tova. I am sorry to have not heard from you after our meeting this last spring, but I suppose we are both busy men. If this letter is in any way unwelcome, burn it. I've been slacking in making atonements in my life, and with Yom Kippur around the corner, I may as well begin the process. I've told you that I was right to listen to your brother. I still stand by that. I am writing to apologize for any confusion or anger that may have sparked. I left France both angry and confused. The name Thomas Shelby is an ear worm to me. A memory that creeps into my mind when I least expect it. You are loyal and I shit on the trust that we built.

There, my moment of vulnerability to fulfill a religious obligation. If I never hear from you again, I'll know that I've nearly nothing left to say.

I remain yours, faithfully,

Capt. Alfie Solomons

\------

September 29, 1919

Alfie,

Very civilized of you, writing me a pretty letter, but you're wrong twice. First, you are never in danger of having nothing to say. And second, you never had to apologize. You and John both were right, and I accepted that. There's no need to talk more about it. I can't offer forgiveness for something that was not a crime, and I suspect you were drunk when you wrote this, in any case.

Polly's run off to Australia to find her daughter, and Ada's fallen in love with a communist, so there's nobody with an ounce of sense to talk to around here anymore. That's my excuse for writing you, perhaps. The nights are getting longer, and colder, and we seem to have more enemies than ever before without having made much progress. I don't know how you stood the risk of giving orders as a captain. Some of my soldiers are civilians now, and boys. I can't sleep. Can you? Call that vulnerability if you want, one for one.

Tommy

\------

October 3, 1919

Tommy,

You're thick if you think that confessing a spell of insomnia is moment of vulnerability. I don't feel like I've slept a night since I've gotten back to London. My best sleep comes from a cup of hot water, whiskey, and lemon. Take what you would like from that. Sentiment or alcoholism.

Your Ada with a communist? It seems to run in the blood, hmm? I can't say that she has bad taste. Maybe just foolish at this point in time. I had a meeting in a tea house not to long ago, (talk about fucking posh), and overheard a conversation between bankers. "You know what the workers' unions really are? Synagogues without holidays." An interesting time when communists are as bad as the Jews. I'd laugh, but the raids in London to break up communist meetings are becoming more frequent. I know you'll look after her.

You failed to mention John and Arthur. I'm assuming that they're well if they are unmentionable.

Alfie Solomons

\------

October 6, 1919

Alfie,

It's alcoholism.

And I've already tried it. Doesn't work. Smoking special helps with forgetting, but not sleeping. Polly swears she's found some magic Australian tea that will do the job, but what's a few dried leaves to a war?

Idiocy certainly runs in the blood. Of course I run after Ada, but she's slippery as a fresh caught fish. John's doing all right, if married is what you'd call all right. I suspect I'll be an uncle soon. Terrible thought, since I'm already doing a shit job with poor Finn now that Polly's away and I'm minding him. I can't imagine what he and his mates will be like when they grow up, never having been in France. Hopefully they'll get more sleep. Arthur's not well.

I'd tell you to take care, but I'm sure you could crack the spines of half a dozen bankers and not break a sweat. Do warn me if you turn communist, though, I'm not looking to be interrogated by the police over association.

How's the bread and all? Your family?

Tommy

\------

October 18, 1919

Tommy,

Sorry for the delay. The bakery, as asked about in your last letter, is booming. We've got an entire warehouse at this point. My team has expanded from thirty, and I'm capping it there. I know my limits when it comes to keeping folks in order and I've hit the capacity for what I can manage on my own. I've got my own protege in training; we will see where things go from there. Our biggest buyer is located in New York. If you're in town soon, I'd be glad to give you a tour.

Finn is the youngest, right? What, ten? Eight? Young boys are always mischief. Think of yourself at that age. As for Arthur... Well, he doesn't have age as an excuse, does he? What's the matter?

Alfie

\------

October 22, 1919

Alfie,

A protege? What did he do to get your attention? Rob a bank? Fight a lion? Gut a policeman? And this product of yours. Quite a well-kept bread to make the journey, isn't it? Maybe I will have to try a sample, if only to bring back the culinary wonder for John's wife to look at. Martha loves to bake. I'll have to run John on a lead soon to keep him getting fat. Or maybe the baby will run him enough, once it comes and can crawl.

Arthur's the same as all of us, but worse. Without ambition, like you and I. Without a wife and family, like John and Danny. Without a cause, like Freddie. He's just lost. I don't know what I can do for him. The missions are short, a day at most, and I can't tell him any plans, so he doesn't have the constant tether of work. And now there's the snow. You ever have problems with that among your workers? What do you do?

Young boys are always mischief, which is why Finn gives me so much trouble. He's quiet. He's good. Far too good for that age. He ought to be putting frogs in my soup and there he is trying to sneak books out of my library. Not engraved ones either, or romances. Dusty old shit. I hope we don't end up having a scholar in the family. I wouldn't know what to tell Polly if she came back with her daughter and found we had a tiny university-attending Communist. Do you know, Finn actually asked politely to shoot a gun? I don't think anyone in the family's ever asked permission for anything. I think Arthur just turned up one day with one of Dad's old guns in his coat and we all followed suit. Jesus.

I've spent nearly the whole letter on my family and you spend none of yours on yours. Are they in another city? You never said.

Tommy

\------

October 27th, 1919

Tommy,

Ollie is certainly a project of mine to work on. He's an anxious bloke, a bit mousy, but he's got a sharp mind for business. You know how I can be a bit rough around the edges. It's not a good fit for all of our clients. He's got the shiny face for sales and his chemistry knowledge covers all sorts of gaps that we've been missing in our intelligence. Gunpowder is far more versatile than I ever imagined. You just wait until you see some of his fireworks this Midsummer.

Snow? I make my opinion on it case by case and I don't allow it in the factory. When we're doing work outside of production, why not? It gives my men an edge, but it can make them sloppy. I've had to relieve a few sods from duty. It can be jarring to the others to see the display, but I think it sets a good example. As for Finn, good lad. Politeness will take him far in the world. We can't all have guns blazing, even though that's how it feels the world is heading.

As for my failing to mention my family, it's not a mistake. My father is dead, has been since I was a baby. Mum is melancholy and often gives in to hysterics. She lives with my sister, a spinster, who cares for her. I send money often, and rarely visit. She was strong for a very long time and it makes me sick to see her so broken now. Perhaps that makes me a shit son.

Sincerely,

Alfie

\------

October 30, 1919

Alfie,

The mind's important, but you'd best find someone else who can do heavier work than chemistry when necessary. If I go down, Ada, Arthur, and John have it all between them, but only one of them couldn't do it alone. I suppose if he's got courage and brains you can train the rest, with fireworks as a bonus.

Can't remove Arthur. It'd kill him. Politeness may take Finn far, but it's more likely to take him far away than anything else. Birmingham's not the city for it. Maybe we should send him to university, make him a lawyer. Probably need a lawyer at some point; the police are acting up. On a lighter note, Johnny Dogs's aunt predicts John's baby will be a healthy girl, so there's something to look forward to.

The only way to stop feeling like a shit son is to get off your arse, Solomons. Fuck the money, bring a muffin or whatever the fuck it is you make. Rum, even. I know you. You couldn't stand feeling disloyal after only a few months, so you had to write me. You've only known me five years. You've known her your whole life. Alfie, fucking go. I know you.

Tommy

PS I'm not fucking about, you'll only hurt yourself.

\------

Nov. 9th, 1919

Tommy,

When is Johnny's baby due? Extend my congratulations.

I visited as you suggested. I think she needed it. I needed it more. Sometimes you forget how much a parent can mean to you when you're older. Especially when they are close to slipping through your fingers. You have enough experience on that yourself. I shan't make you dwell on it. She recognized me. We told stories, a few of which I had forgotten about, so I wrote them down. I'll be going again in a few weeks. Thank you.

Please find along with this letter two books and a notebook for Finn. One on English criminal law, and the other on Napoleonic Warfare. We can find a use for him yet.

Alfie

\------

Nov. 11, 1919

Alfie,

I thought you might not write back. It's good you did.

The baby isn't coming for months. Four at the very least, they say. Makes it clear that they ran headlong into the marriage after finding out, but somehow they're happy. Must have been a piece of good luck that it was her. I used to think marriage could be like war, that you could plan it a bit at least, but more and more these things seem to be pure chance.

Don't you think nine is young for him to be following in the footsteps of that maniacal Frenchman? Maybe I'll keep these for myself, for the time. I've been spending a lot of it in bed, anyway, because a few days ago I was shot in the stomach and apparently boredom is the sort of thing doctors require. If you lived here, we could have fought in James Bailey's ring after hours, kept me on my toes, faster than this.

Yours,  
Tommy

PS Finn says thank you.

\------

November 15, 1919 —

Tommy,

Marriage is funny like that. I'm not sure if I'm the sort of man for it. I think work is more important than looking for a wife presently. Besides, my bed is seldom cold.

If I fought you in James Bailey's ring, you would still be on bed rest from a shot to your stomach. My fist may be a bit more forgiving than a bullet though. Who and where? I'm assuming the recovery is expected to be full. I'd hope so at least. If you're holding the books for Finn, perhaps they can provide you a couple days of entertainment. Shall I send you something as well? The doctor may thank me.

Fondly,   
Alfie

\------

Alfie,

I'm not sure how John does it. How any of them do it. I think it would require someone who understood our life, who had been in the war, perhaps. Should I look up our favorite nurse? She'd be a steady gun hand if ever there was one.

As for your bed, fuck, I don't know what you want me to say to that. I never thought otherwise of you. With your whiskey and your fussing over the weather, I always knew you were too much of a sensualist to act any differently. But I don't know what I'm supposed to say about the obvious.

If we'd fought, I'd have given my reflexes better practice than sitting in a room poring over ledgers at the very least. You don't have to send anything. It's bad enough I still owe you a drink, and now something in return for the books. Finn quite likes the notebook, by the way, though I suspect he draws in it more than he writes. I don't know where he gets the artistic nonsense from. Even Ada was more keen on maths and history than anything else.

The who was one of the Finsbury Boys (dead now), the where doesn't matter. Though they're allies of the Cortesi family, aren't they, and the Cortesi family is on your turf. By happy accident, we appear to share enemies. That's some kind of luck, though not the same as marriage luck.

Regards,  
Tommy

\------

Tommy,

A sensualist? What a title. I don't believe I've ever been called that before. Nor was I aware that I made a fuss when it came to the weather. You remember such odd bits. I suppose I do of you, too. (Apologies if this sounds at all cryptic. I'm writing to you after a night out. I'll be impressed if you find my handwriting to be legible.)

The books were a gift to your brother. I'm not expecting a thing in return. Maybe just more letters. This is a hell of a lot better than rambling to myself in a journal.

We're watching the Cortesi. Quite closely now.

Faithfully yours,   
Alfie Solomons

\------

November 23, 1919

Alfie,

You can't say you remember odd bits and not say what they are now. Especially when I'm bored in bed, and likelier to be struck curious. Everyone's treating me like I'm glass since I've been shot. Even Polly's withholding. She found her daughter and is bringing her back, but won't say any more than that. I may go insane. Or at least go to the fucking office.

Letters are better than a journal, but mind you lock them up like one. A full safe, Alfie, iron and bolted to the ground.

Tommy

PS How faithfully mine can you be after a night out? One wonders.

\------

November 26, 1919

Tommy,

I'm not treating you like glass by not telling you what I remember. I'm just refraining from saying anything that might put me in a compromising position. I don't want you to think that I was locked onto you in the trenches. Goodness... The odd bits of Thomas Shelby. Very stoic, but your eyes are such a give. I don't think your calmness comes from discipline, but from your ability to just stop listening when you're finished with a conversation. I know the very second that you mentally check out and begin listening to your inner monologue. You also take an excruciatingly long time to shave. So meticulous, that I may even claim that it's a disorder. It's like you get off to the metal on your skin. Those are the observant memories that come to mind immediately.

Does a night out keep me from being faithful to a friend? I don't believe so. A wife perhaps. I've got a spot for the letters, by the way, under a lock. Never you worry. I hope you'll do the same for me.

Still faithfully yours,

Alfie

\------

November 30, 1919

Alfie,

You're already compromised. If these weren't compromising, I wouldn't need to lock them up. But perhaps we shouldn't rely so heavily on memories; you're too observant yourself (I can only remember shaving with you there maybe once or twice, after very long nights), and it's all behind us now.

I thought we'd given up on calling this friendship. I've not seen you in months, and we're not the kind of men with letter-writing friends, besides.

I'm sorry this is short. Polly's back and all Hell has broken loose. At least it's an excuse to get out of bed.

Tommy

\------

Dec. 2, 1919

Tommy,

This not being a friendship is news to me. I suppose I have never really thought about what it meant to keep up with someone through the post on matters outside of business. I won't question what this is. I only wish to leave it as it is. Your letters are usually the highlight of my overworked day.

Polly's returned already? Is her daughter in tow? What do you think of her?

Best,

Alfie Solomons

\------

December 5, 1919

Alfie,

It's better not to question it, I think. And if you're overworked, think of me. Even before Rose—that's Polly's daughter—came to the house to meet me, she already caused ten times more mischief than Finn has caused in the whole of the last month. Polly took her to the Garrison for a drink and a hello to the boys, and somehow that turned into her kissing Isaiah out back, and naturally a fight, and now it seems I have the whole of Birmingham on my heels shouting about it, not to mention another attempt on my life by the ever-persistent Finsbury Boys. As a result, we're all in Polly's house (strength in numbers, or something), and there's only two bloody bathrooms. It's a fucking nightmare. I love them, but I may also either throw one of them in the Cut or get chucked myself.

Polly's happy, so there's that. And I'm walking about again, able to practice some long-range shooting if not quite able to enter the ring just yet. How's your Ollie? And your enemies?

Tiredly yours,  
Tommy

\------

Dec. 9, 1919

Tommy,

Be careful there. Perhaps this is where some of your stoic "discipline" will do you some good. If she's a member of the Shelby family, of course she's going to cause a riot in Birmingham. Maybe Ada can try and keep her in line... If she's not tearing the town up herself with the communist. Rest up as your doctor ordered, or ignore him and pluck the thorn of the Finsbury Boys from your side. I'm sure Arthur wouldn't mind a bit of action. Besides you also were saying how you needed to take John-boy for a walk to keep him from getting too fat in marriage.

Honestly, London has been quiet. A little too quiet for my taste. It may be time to ruffle some feathers.

Eager to hear back,

Alfie.

\------

December 11, 1919

Alfie,

If you were here, you'd have set the whole house ablaze before breakfast, I assure you. Ada's no help at all, actually has some sort of radical notions about how the relationship is good, because love overcomes the walls between the races. But then there's the small matter of me, the only sane one left in the family, attempting to avoid my newfound cousin, not to mention Isaiah, from starting another massive brawl. Meanwhile, I've discovered that Rose drinks like a sailor, picks locks like her father, and makes speeches like her mother, so I'm starting to wonder if she's actually the bad influence on Isaiah instead of the other way round.

There is a considerable amount more voltage around the place, to say the least. We're full-up on manpower, so the time seems right. If you're looking for a coordinated expansion, I have a few ideas. Not sure it's wise to merge these letters with our professional lives, but if you want to give it a try, give me a call at my office during business hours. Or as late as you like. The office has more peace in it than the house does nowadays.

Looking forward,

Tommy

\------

Alfie looked over Thomas' letter as he sat in his office and sipped his rum. Their product was getting good. Quite good. Well, good enough for the Americans. He pulled his phone closer to him and fingered the dial before connecting with an operator. He waited as it rang, surprised by his heart rate. When a receptionist answered, he checked the clock and cleared his throat.

"This is Alfie Solomons calling for Thomas Shelby. He's expecting me."

"Yes?" Tommy growled. His voice was two shades darker and significantly rougher. But then he repeated it in a much more civil tone: "Yes, who is this?"

In the background, a voice said: "We're not done."

Then the phone was muffled, probably by Tommy's hand over it, not quite enough to mask the general tenor of a short, sharp exchange. Then, finally: "Apologies. If you said something, I didn't hear. Who is this?"

“Sounds like a rough day at the office, Tommy.” Alfie could help but smile, picking his drink back up. “Do yourself a favor and pour yourself a drink. I just got your letter and I’m calling to discuss the coordinated expansion that you suggested.” He opened his notebook on his desk and picked up his pen. “I’m a little disappointed I haven’t received you in London yet. I’ve been a bit modest about my baking operation.”

Tommy's face creased in a real smile of delight. "One second." Putting down the phone, he got up, closed the door, and locked it too. Then he was back. "Modest, Alfie? That'd be a first." Reaching in his suit, he produced a flask and took a sip. "Just followed your orders, Captain, with a taste of scotch. Tell me a little about your enemies, now. Then I'll tell you about mine, and we'll see if we can come to some kind of comfortable arrangement."

Solomons’ smile grew as well, something about Tommy following his orders and calling him Captain tickled him. “Modest is perhaps the wrong word. Misleading.” He wrote Tommy’s name slowly on the pad in front of him. “I’m sure you’re aware with what is going on in the states right now. The prohibition of alcohol. I’ve built an impressive distillery, Tommy.”

"I know. I don't take all my strategic intelligence from a set of letters, you know. I have my eyes in London like any other man would. So who's your competition? Where are you trying to expand? Or is someone cutting off your exports?" Tommy was leaning over his desk now, notes spread, calendar open, pen at the ready. "My guess is the Italians. Maybe the Irish?"

“Of course you do.” Alfie smirked, tapping his pen. “Can’t be someone from the banks, maybe a contractor? I’m fairly strict with who comes in and out.” He licked his lips. “Irish, yes. Mostly down in Boston’s ports and then the Italians in New York. I’ve got some men just now on a boat over for New York to finalize our route and organize the distributors.”

"That's not exactly a challenge we can help with, Alfie. I refuse to believe you lack for local enemies; I'm not half as loud as you are and I'm up to my neck in them. It's the Finsbury boys; you probably know them by their London arm, run by George Sage, pretty near you in Camden Town. They're too clever by half; it's like fighting with a dozen birds in a forest. You get one, but then another flies at you. They seem to have two or three leaders, and no base, and they're spending their time just wearing us down so they can take our place. The only time we'd be able to destroy them is if we knew their plans ahead of time, but their ranks are impenetrable. I have an idea of how you can change that, but first I need to know what you need, to see if there's an exchange to be made. So." Tommy lit a cigarette. "Tell me about your London troubles."

"Tommy, something you'll have to understand is that I'm not one to air my grievances to those outside of my circle. It could expose holes in my coverage and I need to know that you are completely with me. If you aren't then... Well, you're against me, right?" Alfie shifted his hat back a bit and stroked his beard. He knew that he could trust Tommy, but part of him wanted to hear him offer his allegiance verbally. "George Sage is an alley cat. Mangy, loud, and full of fleas. They're well organized but not necessarily skilled. Jonas McEbisi. A brat of the Royal Navy's base in South Africa. After the war, he decided to stick around London and her ports. He's got a lot of fingers in trade and has enough military decoration to do whatever he pleases. A single whiff of smuggling and I've seen warehouses burned to the ground." He paused for a moment to light his own cigarette. "What is it? December? Yeah.. The alcohol ban is to take effect at the start of the new year. I've got shipments that have spread as far as Chicago, but only several hundred cases. I've orders for thousands, Tommy. Thousands of boxes of bottles. I'm up to my fucking eyes in merchandise and it really could be lost in a moment."

"Sounds like you've already decided that I'm completely with you," Tommy said, after a moment. He chucked the pen down onto the desk and sat in silence for a good minute, blue eyes darting back and forth, working it all over in his mind. "Well. It sounds like for Sage, all you'd need is a bit more manpower. I trust with that, you can outmaneuver them on your own. I may have an idea of what to do with McEbisi, but let me look up his records first; I'd rather not cut a good soldier just because he was put in the wrong position at the wrong time. But, supposing I can provide about a dozen more men at the right moment, and supposing I get McEbisi out of your life for good, let's talk about what you can offer me. I'd need a temporary loan for police payoffs, strategic intelligence on London's racetrack families, and Ollie to blow up Polly's house. Obviously, not with us in it." Tommy paused for a breath.

"Don't refuse just yet," he went on. "Think it over, let me gather information, and I'll call you again. For now, have another drink. Tell me about your bakery. Or Ollie. Or anything. Ada's outside, looking murderous, and I'd rather be on a business call than get my ear chewed off."

Also, he didn't mind listening to Alfie's voice. The scrawling handwriting of Alfie's letters was good, but his voice was something else altogether. It held so much of his personality in it, and sometimes that alone made Tommy smile.

Alfie snorted. "McEbisi was not put into the wrong place at the wrong time. He saw his return to London as an opportunity to 'clean up the streets.' You know what that fucking means. He came here to dismantle projects set up by men like us that give hope to the families trying to stitch their lives together after the war." He couldn't help but chuckle to himself. "I'm making smuggling sound like fucking charity." His laugh grew again and he took another sip of his drink. "Look, Tommy, give me some more details... I'm going to assist you. You scratch my back and I'll do the same for you."

  
He let out a sigh and thought about what Tommy would possibly want to hear from him. He was never a man of many words over the phone. He always preferred to watch the expressions form on others' faces for his antics. "I find it sweet that you're interested in including Ollie. He's a live-in now. I've got him up in a guest room. For a mouse of a lad, I've seen him sneak quite a collection of broads in. Incredible how a bit of cash can make even a schmuck an object of desire."

"Jesus fuck, Alfie," Tommy laughed. "You're hard on him. Maybe he's scrawny, but there's the romanticism of crime, and a clean suit, and an intelligent boy. We can't all be you, built like a fucking rhinoceros, shouting here and there. Some women would only find it intimidating." He let out a breath of smoke and tilted his head back. "As for McEbisi, if you want him dead, we can work on it, but nothing you've said so far has told me he has to die. If anything, his desires make him a straightforward subject, easily movable elsewhere. You don't have to convince me to get rid of him, Alfie. Don't have to talk to me like I'm other people. We both know this isn't anything like a postwar help-the-children program. You're a soldier, and I'm a soldier. We've run out of enemies, so now it's time to make and break new ones, eh? It's all right. I know you."

Tommy shifted slightly, took another sip. "Oh, look, Ada's given me the finger and gone off somewhere. Seems like you've solved one of my problems already."

Alfie washed back the last of his drink and smiled into the phone, glancing up at his own office door. He hadn't bothered to lock it. There was really no need, but there was something about validation from Thomas Shelby that he desperately craved. Something that made him feel like he would be better off behind a locked door. "Built like a fucking rhinoceros..." he mused, chuckling again. "I suppose you're right. Intelligence and a clean suit certainly goes a way with you." He reached into his desk drawer for the bottle, pouring just a dash more in his glass. "Do you find it intimidating?" he asked, attempting to sound casual about the flirtation.

"The body, or the shouting?" Though really it didn't matter. "I haven't got to where I am by allowing myself to be intimidated. Whatever little machine in my 'ead is supposed to create fear, it got flipped over and crushed during the war. I don't think it works at all now. It's a decent advantage, having a broken brain, as long as I don't overshoot. Why, Alfie? It's not as if you've been trying to scare me. We wouldn't be talking families the way we do if you were working your way to a proper intimidation. And you wouldn't try. It's what they call mutually assured destruction between you and I."

Alfie took a drink. No. Not what he was talking about, and he immediately felt like a fool for trying to coax it from him. "You're right, Shelby, I wouldn't try. There's no point to it. I don't want you to look into my reason for asking. I had just never considered myself to be intimidating to the fairer sex. Then again, I tend to be a little softer around the edges with courting." His eyes flicked up as Ollie knocked and walked in. Any softness that he had for Tommy hardened immediately. "And I'm sure as fuck not attempting to court you, old sport." A forced laugh followed. "I must leave you here. Looks like I've another fire to put out. We'll talk loans later this week. Draw me up a proposal and we'll find a compromise. Ta." Without waiting for another word from Thomas, Alfie hung up the phone and let out a breath.

Tommy gave an incredulous look to nobody in particular, then set down the phone. "Old sport? Fuck, Alfie." He wished that they'd had the meeting in person, if only so he could roll his eyes at the man, but the conversation was over, so let it be over.

\------

December 19, 1919

Alfie,

You asked for a proposal, so here it is.

On December 24, my family will gather for a Christmas Eve dinner. Polly's the only one who minds Christ, but the rest of them are fond enough of dinner, so it's an annual tradition. After dinner, we will hide in the cellar while your boy Ollie sets the house ablaze with a bomb in spectacular fashion. They will assume it was an attack from the IRA, which I have been feuding with publicly for the past few days. The coppers and the doctors will wheel us out, sheets over faces, presumed dead, into ambulances and away. John and Arthur will join a dozen boys on the train up to London, and will happily participate with you in fucking over the Sage operation on Christmas day. I assume your men have no objections to working Christmas.

The New Year's race is always a day of big betting, so with us presumed dead and out of the picture, the Finsbury Boys will want to move in quickly and have the bookmaking shop and the Garrison in their hands and running smoothly before then. With our boys secretly come back from your London raid, we'll hit them on the night of the 26th, clean them the Finsbury Boys considerably. Those not run out of town will tossed in the Cut.

As for Jonas McEbsisi, you'll find in the coming days that he has accepted a position as Special Advisor to the Greek forces fighting the Turks, with an implication that if he performs well, he may be transferred in a few years to a higher position in India. If there's anything a self-righteous Englishman loves more than laying down the law to English criminals, it's pompously ordering about a great deal of English soldiers and looking down his nose at brown people. He'll depart London on the 21st. (Originally, a seasoned diplomat by the name of Ennis Irving was going to go, but Mr. Irving has since withdrawn his name, citing his wife's health as the reason, rather than because we've got some significantly compromising photos of his oldest son, a blossoming young politician, frequenting a seedy establishment.) Consider the fact that this has been put into motion even before we've agreed on the specifics to be a goodwill gesture.

You'll reimburse us the money we spend in rebuilding Polly's house, in bribing the coppers and doctors, in the logistics, and in donating to the IRA as a goodwill gesture for temporarily framing them for arson.

With some work, we'll all be fat and happy come 1920, and with very few casualties.

Call and negotiate as soon as possible. If the plan's to be put in motion on the 24th, we have to move quickly.

Ta,

Old Sport

PS Did you know that when Ollie interrupted you, your voice went up half an octave and you sounded like one linen-suited nobleman in the box seats at the race? Really quite something. You should have a doctor take a look at that throat of yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads-up: there isn't an actual ending to this RP but there is more content


End file.
